Don’t forget who’s takin’ you home

What went before: Well. I’ve made a timeline, and notes, and more notes. It looks like I’m going back to Station Day 48 to start, which is further than I thought I’d have to go.

I have an invoice from the plow guy, second of a set, which I need to check against the calendar, and then write a check. I note for interest’s sake, that the bill for February is exactly the same as the previous bill for the entire rest of the winter previous to February. Plowing is billed by the incident, which means it snowed as much in February, the — thank ghod — shortest month of the year, as it snowed in November-December-January, combined.

Tomorrow, I have to call Martin’s Point, because they billed me for an Out-of-Network specialist for going the walk-in clinic, which in theory should cost me nothing. The special part of that bill is that the procedure is listed as “miscellaneous.” Man, I took bookkeeping, be it ever so long ago. “Miscellaneous” is the Kiss of Death. Get it right the first time, why not?

Also tomorrow I have to make the reservations I didn’t make today because I wanted to write. Mind you, I expect that I’ll want to write tomorrow, too, so there’s a false economy.

I need a secretary. And a cook. And a housekeeper. And an assassin. Not necessarily in that order.

It did occur to me today that I could get everything done if I just went back to the desk after Coon Cat Happy Hour, and worked until midnight/1 am, like I used to do in Olden Times, when I would then also get up at 5:30 to go to my day-job.

. . . I suspect that might be a young person’s game . . .

Monday. Sunny and -3F/-19C. My office hasn’t warmed up yet, and I write to you in my Official Winter clothes of flannel shirt and jeans, with a fleece lap blanket.

Breakfast was the last of the Port Salut on toast with grapes. Second of what I fear will be many cups of tea to hand. Lunch will very likely be leftover drunken noodles.

Last night kind of went from bad to worse. I finally gave up on deciding if I was going to eat anything, made chamomile tea in a Yeti cup, took my book and went to bed, where I was speedily joined by Rookie the Cookie, Grandpa Trooper, and Tali (who hasn’t earned a nickname yet). We put on some soft jazz; I drank my tea and read, and finally went to sleep.

I had a dream where I was involved in a music festival/co-op/fund raising kind of … something. I got dragged into being a liaison between one of the bands and the set-up crew, because the guy who was supposed to be doing that work had been sent off on a round of errands and hadn’t come back yet. Things were a little confused, in the way of dreams — and music festivals, and fund raisers — but the original band liaison did finally come back just in time to rescue me as I was trying to explain how the band worked to one of the organizers, which wasn’t making happy listening for the organizer. The original liaison backed me, agreed to nothing with great cheerfulness, and got the organizer out the door, which he locked, then turned to me with a grin.

“I thought I’d find you here,” he said. “Did Angel pay you, or at least give you something to eat? Or did you want something else?”

“I was wondering if I could have the music for the last song in the set,” I said.

“That song? They don’t share that song, they only play it.”

“Well, I wanted to learn to play it,” I said.

He laughed. “Oh! In that case — let’s go find Angel.”

I woke up at 7 with Firefly tucked against my stomach.

Today, I have a cool three million — or at least six — phone calls to make, some letters to answer, my duty to the cats, and to stage the trash for tomorrow, if it ever warms up (the day, not the trash). I don’t actually have to be anywhere until Wednesday afternoon, when Tali has her meet ‘n greet at the vet.

And that’s it for right now.

How’s Monday treating you so far?

Today’s blog post brought to you by The Drifters, “Save the Last Dance for Me“